


Blood and Flowers

by trash_devil



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Its really gay, Lancelot generally being Not Okay, M/M, PTSD, Paranoia, Physical Abuse, Possession, Sexual Abuse, TINY LANCELOT, Trauma, Verbal Abuse, also because it fits well, and named Pounce-a-Lot, at the very least Vane ships them, body horror?, did i mention this is gay, i know Vane is actually not that much taller than Lancey but, i proofread these as best i can but tell me if something's off, in the honor of one of my all time favorite gays, lancelot attempts flirting, percival means well but hes a bit too prickly, slight Percival/Siegfried, the cat is too important, these two make me really gay, think about it, various injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-03-14 12:59:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 8,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13590552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trash_devil/pseuds/trash_devil
Summary: Some part of Lancelot had died in that dingy cell, and Vane wasn't sure if he could revive it.[On hiatus]





	1. Powerless

“My, my, don’t tell me that you’ve been shedding tears without me!” Isabella forced his chin up with one finger, her nail angled to dig into the soft flesh of the underside of his jaw. The feeble candlelight reflected off the tear trails that traced their way down his cheeks. “What have you been doing when I’m not around?” She pulled her hand away; his head drooped back down to his chest without its support. “Has someone else been having fun with you?”

Lancelot wheezed in the silence at the end of her question. He couldn’t speak; he could barely keep his eyes open.

She slapped him across the face. “Pay attention to me!” she shrieked.

The force snapped his head to the side. His eyes slid over to look at her. Something in the lighting, or maybe in the angles of his face, darkened his irises to an inky black. He did not cry out. She had done worse.

But even she couldn’t make him cry. Nothing she could do could match the exquisite torture of being down here, alone, unknowing. He hated not knowing. The world could have crumbled, his friends could be dead, and he would still be here and trapped and powerless. 

“I said, pay attention,” she repeated, quieter. She ran her finger along his bare chest, over the ridges of his ribs. He shuddered. 

Isabella pressed against his bruises and took delight in the way it made him squirm. Her nails caught on old scabs and pulled them open again. She drew back to lick blood off of her fingertip and smiled at him. “Lancelot.”

He hated the syllables of his name in her mouth. His lips curled into a snarl, but then her finger hooked itself in the side of his mouth and pulled back.

“Bad Lancelot,” she said. His dry lips cracked and bled. “Bad dogs get punished.” 

He was too weak to resist as she dragged her tongue across his mouth. It was not long before it turned into a kiss. 

Then her hands were on his thighs, forcing them apart, her hips grinding against his.

Lancelot closed his eyes and tried to pretend he was anywhere else. But he was here, and just because he could not see it did not mean he could not feel it, could not hear it. If they were not chained, his hands would certainly be over his ears. 

They would not be on her. He could not stand the thought of touching her, even if it was to keep her away.

Isabella, of course, had no such reservations.


	2. Release

Vane was stunned into speechlessness when he turned the final corner of that long, winding set of stairs. “Lancey…?” he said when he finally found his voice.

He was scared. He felt like he was seeing a ghost.  
Lancelot had always been on the skinny side, but now he couldn’t be described as anything but emaciated. His head lolled to one side; he couldn’t muster the effort to lift it. He couldn’t imagine that this was anything but a dream.

Still, he spoke to this likely illusion. “...Vane…?” he said in a voice that wasn’t even a whisper. His chest spammed from the sudden use of muscles he hadn’t used in so long. Dry, painful coughs forced their way out of his dehydrated body, moistureless until something gave way in his throat and his mouth filled with the moisture of blood. He gagged and spat out a dark, sticky wad of it. Dark spots danced at the edges of his vision.

Tears welled up in Vane’s eyes. “Lancey!!” he cried. With one mighty swipe of his spear, he bent apart the rusty bars of the cell door. 

He had to stop himself from throwing his arms around Lancelot. He was afraid he would break something. Instead, he reached under Lancelot’s arms to catch him when the chains no longer held him up. He unlatched the shackles, and Lancelot tumbled into him. 

Lancelot dug his fingers into the solid flesh of Vane’s arms. Solid proof that this was no illusion. He began to shake.

“It’s okay, Lancey. We’re gonna get you out of here.” Vane gently took the knight’s hands into his. Lancelot’s wrists were scraped raw and red from straining against his manacles. 

“Save it for later,” Percival’s voice snapped from behind them. He glanced over his shoulder at the stairs. If anyone were to come down, they’d be cornered in this tiny, dark room, and he didn’t much relish the thought of being in that situation. “Carry him; don’t coddle him.”

Vane obeyed. As carefully as possible, he heaved Lancelot onto his back. “Hold on tight, buddy,” he whispered, and then began the bouncy ride back up the steps.

…

They were lucky enough to not encounter anyone on the stairs.  
They were not lucky enough to go entirely unnoticed.


	3. Weakness

Percival and Vane stood in front of him, weapons drawn. Lancelot has never felt so weak.   
He refused to feel so weak. Adrenaline pumped through him and gave him the strength to rise unsteadily to his feet.

“I’ll fight too!” His voice cracked and every syllable splattered the stone floor with blood, but he still managed to hold his swords out, no matter how wildly they trembled. Percival didn’t reply, but Vane’s head turned to glare at him.

“You’re in no shape to fight,” he said with all the disapproval and quiet anger of a mother speaking to a disobedient child.

“I can!” Lancelot protested. He swung one of his swords in a shaky arc that did more to disprove his point than to prove it. He struggled to keep it from slipping through his fingers.

“You’ll do more harm than good,” Percival said in that calm and arrogant tone of his.  
Something in his tone made Lancelot stop. His shoulders slumped and he allowed his arms to drop back down to his sides.

And he let the world around him go black.

———

Vane picked up Lancelot’s unconscious form once the fight was over. He was much lighter than Vane remembered, but he tried not to think of that. He had his friend back. That was what mattered.

He and Percival were only about halfway back to camp when night fell.

“We’ll stay here,” Percival said in a way that prevented any questioning. He was already clearing a space to start a small campfire. Vane carefully placed Lancelot on the grass and set about collecting branches.

Before long, they had the fire going. The smell of cooking meat made his stomach growl so loud that it woke Lancelot up. 

The knight grabbed onto his hand, slurring some warning about dragons. Vane pulled him up, and he landed awkwardly in his lap.

“Sorry about that, Lancey…”

Lancelot leaned his head against Vane’s chest and said nothing. With a bit of hesitation, Vane wrapped his arms around him.

He didn’t want to squeeze for fear that the warm life in his arms would snap like a twig. Lancelot had lost both muscle and weight during his imprisonment, and Vane felt like he was holding a baby bird, frail and small and incredibly fragile. 

“... You gonna eat?” he said after a long silence.

“Can’t keep it down,” Lancelot mumbled, nuzzling into Vane’s chest. 

“You sure?” Vane asked, but he was already reaching for the food. Lancelot laughed and his eyes fell closed again.


	4. Some Things Don't Wash Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the spacing change

“C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up,” Vane said.  
Lancelot’s nails dug into his back in a complaint he couldn’t find the strength to voice.  
Vane rolled his eyes, even though he knew Lancelot couldn’t see it from where he slumped over his back. “It’s just me, Lancey! We did this all the time as kids, so why should this time be different?”  
“We’re not kids, that’s what different,” Lancelot said with as much volume and authority as he could muster.  
It came out more like the mewling of a sick kitten.  
“You rather someone else do it?”  
The loosening of the fingers digging into his shoulders was answer enough. Vane laughed and set Lancelot down on the riverbank. He started to peel off the knight’s tattered clothes—it was harder than he expected, they were so sticky with blood. Harder still was to look at the collection of wounds underneath: scratches, cuts, bites, lashes, bruises.  
He was distracted enough by this task to not notice that bit by bit, Lancelot was hauling himself closer to the river. He slipped out of Vane’s grip and dunked his head into the water. He drank greedily, never mind how his empty stomach heaved and made him spit up as much as he drank. He hadn’t had a thing to drink since that traitorous wine, and he wanted anything to soothe his parched throat.

“Lancey!” Strong arms hooked under his and pulled him back closer to the riverbank. “What are you doing!?”  
Lancelot looked up at him and opened his mouth, but no words came out. Just water, turned from clear to an alarming shade of pink-red by blood.  
“You’re gonna make yourself sick like that,” Vane said, quieter now. He pulled off the rest of Lancelot’s soggy clothes without any complaint from the other knight; he was too ashamed of his behavior. Vane scrubbed at his scabs and wounds as gently as he could, and around them the water rippled in darker shades from all the grime.  
Still, Lancelot did not feel clean. He doubted he ever would again. He sat perfectly still as Vane worked over him.  
Vane tried not to look too hard. Every bruise, scab, cut, and scar shrieked accusations at him. It’s your fault, your fault, you let this happen to him.  
Even if he had done no wrong, he felt responsible for each and every wound. He sighed and helped Lancelot out of the river.  
“You can borrow some of my clothes,” he said, still looking away.

Vane’s shirt fit him more like a dress. Lancelot didn’t mind. It made him feel safe, that too-big shroud of Vane-scented cloth. He wanted to bury his face in it and breathe deep, but that would not be proper.

\---

He had been bandaged up, but Lancelot still had to lean against Vane for support, and he hoped that Vane couldn’t hear the nervous thrum of his heart.  
Percival gave him an odd look for wearing Vane’s clothes. He felt like some tiny girlfriend borrowing a jacket, and the next moment wondered in embarrassment why he had even thought it at all.  
Luckily, Percival moved on before he could say something stupid.  
“We should be able to make it to base camp soon.”


	5. Don't Touch Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, Percival, sometimes tough love isn't the way to go.

His wounds were mostly superficial. Under the experienced hands of healers—and Vane’s worried flurry of care—he recovered. He needed to be strong enough when they infiltrated the castle again.  
The problem was, what “strong enough” meant was different for every person.

“You're weak,” Percival sneered, trying to goad Lancelot into fighting him. “Your blade has dulled. You're nothing but a coward now.”  
“I know,” Lancelot said, not even bothering to look up.  
“So? Are you just going to sit there and take it? Is that the kind of man you've become?”  
“Please, Percival, that's enough…” Lancelot bit his lip and stared down at his hands, silently praying the other knight would leave.  
Percival scoffed, “You're even more worthless than I thought.” He swung his sword and buried the blade deep into the woodwork of the bench, narrowly missing Lancelot.  
He barely even flinched, just looked languidly up at him through his lashes. “... Was that necessary?”  
“Get up, fight.” He wrenched his sword out, spraying wood chips, and slapped Lancelot’s cheek with the flat of the blade. “Maybe I can beat you into someone even a fraction as good as your former self.”  
Lancelot rose to his feet with reluctance. Arguing with Percival would get him nowhere, so he slid his swords from their sheaths. Still, his displeasure showed on his face, his mouth curled into a sullen snarl so very out of place on his delicate features. “What, do you feel the need to beat the wounded down even further to inflate your ego?” he hissed.  
Percival swung his sword again, “Less talking, more fighting.”  
This time, Lancelot moved. His blades clanged against Percival’s, but the force of the blow locked his crossed swords in place. He didn’t have the strength to push back against it, despite how he struggled.  
“Weak.” With one harsh thrust, he threw Lancelot to the ground. “Weak, weak, weak.”  
Lancelot glared up at him.  
“Such a scary face for someone who can’t even manage to scratch me. Now get up.” He reached down to grab a hold of Lancelot’s shoulder, but the knight’s dark eyes suddenly lit up with animal panic.  
“Don’t touch me!” he snarled, lashing out at Percival’s hand.. His grip was was painfully tight, his knuckles whitening as he squeezed harder and harder, a threat to crack open each delicate finger bone. “Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, don’t touch me!!” Each word rose in both pitch and volume until he was practically screaming.  
“Lancelot, what’re you—”  
“Don’t touch me!” he shrieked one last time, yanking Percival down to his level.  
Percival let out a choked cry of surprise as sharp, bony elbows dug into his stomach.  
Lancelot knelt over him, chest heaving, eyes still darting about in a wild panic.  
Percival gasped and forced some of the air back into his lungs, enough to speak again. “Lancelot…!”  
The only response he got was Lancelot rocking his weight forward to pin him in place with his knees. He could feel Lancelot’s kneecaps digging first into his palms, then his fingers, already stinging from Lancelot’s earlier grasp. Now they felt ready to break. His eyes were unfocused, blank, seeing into a different time, a different place.  
“Don’t touch me,” he whispered. His gaze finally truly met Percival’s and he stood abruptly. He turned and walked away with rapid, stiff-legged steps, and refused to meet Percival’s eyes for the rest of the day.

Vane sat down at his side. He wanted to hug him, bring him close, keep him safe in his strong arms, but Lancelot shrank away from any contact.  
“You okay, Lancey?”  
_Nod, nod._  
“What happened there?”  
……  
“What’s wrong?”  
Lancelot looked up at him, his eyes full of some mute emotion that Vane could not place.  
That scared him. After twenty-odd years, he thought he could read all of Lancelot’s moods, but this was something he had never seen. “Lancey, please—”  
“Vane,” Lancelot said, interrupting him. His voice quivered slightly.  
“Um. Yes?”  
Lancelot shook his head and buried his face in his hands.  
Vane watched helplessly. The knight was utterly still, utterly silent, but Vane could see the tears that leaked through his fingers.  
And yet, he couldn’t touch him, couldn’t comfort him. “Lancey,” he repeated.  
He could only hope his voice provided some sort of relief.


	6. Snake Venom

“Isabella!” Lancelot yelled as they burst into the throne room.  
His own name was echoed in response, a moan of “Lanceloooot…”  
He froze in his tracks. Surprised by his sudden stop, Vane came close to slamming into his back while Percival stumbled to a halt a few steps ahead.  
Percival half-turned to face Lancelot. “What are you doing!?” he hissed.  
Lancelot shook his head. His swords clattered to the ground from his numb fingers, and he did not seem to be looking at Percival so much as past him, through him, fixated on some distant thing that only he could see. Vane reached out to him, mouth opening to say something, to snap him out of—

_What? You want to cry?_  
A chorus of feminine giggles, soft as silk and sharp as thorns. Hands groping their way down his helpless body.  
 _I love you more than anyone else._  
Is that true? He wants to ask, but his muddied mind cannot formulate the question, it can barely continue to command his lungs to breathe and heart to beat. She is on him, with him, a part of him, moving up and down and up and down. Like velvet and metal. Milk and pennies. Fingers tangling in his hair, her derision ringing in his ears.  
 _You want to run away?_  
 _But where would you go?_  
Gasps, moans, soft breaths of air. Whose? His? Or hers? But no, doesn’t matter, don’t know, can’t know. Begging stop, please stop, her _yes_ his _no_ mixing together into   
just  
meaningless  
sound.  
Pushing. Prying.  
Hard nails. Soft skin. Bruised wrists.  
 _You should be grateful!_  
 _Do you think anyone else wants you now?_  
Helpless and weak, no more control. Wrong, this is wrong is it wrong? Is she right is she wrong is he wrong but anything to make it stop anything at all he can’t keep his body from jerking to the rhythm of her hands like some sort of disgusting puppet his resistance is nothing as she forces him toward the inevitable climax she laughs he chokes back a sob everything hurts  
everything is  
dirty  
dirty  
dirty—

An otherworldly roar filled the room. Vane’s hands landed on his shoulders and jolted him back to reality. He jerked himself out of Vane’s grasp and took half a step back, only to immediately run up against something hard and solid. He tilted his head back to see what.  
Siegfried loomed over him.   
A small squeak of surprise escaped his lips.  
“Stand back,” Siegfried said in a voice like gravel.   
“No, come forward,” something else said. There was something compelling in its voice, something that drew both Lancelot’s eyes and body. He found himself stepping forward, entranced by those hellfire-blue eyes, despite Siegfried’s attempt to hold him back.  
“Mad king, false king!” it taunted, a new word with every step. “Distorted by love and hate!”   
“Love and hate…” he repeated dumbly.  
The demon slithered up to meet him. Its limbs coiled around him in a twisted embrace. “Perfect. Pitiful. Perfectly pitiful,” it hissed.   
Someone was screaming his name, but he could not find the will to care. Hellfire burst forth from their forms and obscured them in a wreath of unnatural light.  
When it faded, there was only Lancelot standing there.  
His eyes opened slowly, two pits of inky black hatred backlit by the bluish glow of the flames that had consumed him. He smiled.  
Everyone else edged away.  
It was not his smile. It was a horrible snake-smile that threatened to spread and spread until it split his face wide open to reveal a yawning emptiness of flame and fang. His swords glittered in the wicked blue light as he picked them up off the ground.  
Siegfried was the first to find his voice, “You have to fight it, Lancelot.”  
His eyes narrowed into malicious slits. He laughed, a harsh sound in a chorus of voices that did not belong to the throat that barked them out. “What if I don’t want to?”  
“The Lancelot I knew would. He would fight it with every inch of his being.”  
Lancelot let out another peal of cruel laughter. He scraped his swords together with a hair-raising shriek and began to pace about the room in ever-smaller predatory circles. “But, did you know Lancelot?” His words dripped with venom. “Did you really? Lancelot, with all his fears and sorrows and hopes and dreams? Or Lancelot, perfect false imitation of a person, because the real Lancelot would never be good enough for you?” He paused and smiled, savoring the guilt written on their faces, before shrugging and adding, “Of course, maybe that Lancelot wasn’t real either.”  
While they were still reeling from his words, he made his decision. He shot forward like a blue-black dragon, swords like fangs aiming for the gaps in their armor.  
Vane watched dumbly as he streaked by, only to find that his body had begun to react before his brain could. He had already slammed the butt of his spear into the knight’s side in the fraction-of-a-second-opportunity he had. The force was enough to send him stumbling, dangerously off-balance.  
“Vane, Vane, Vane,” the possessed Lancelot hissed as he tried to regain his footing. Confusion was written across his face as he tilted his head to one side, then the other, as if some angle held whatever answer he was seeking. “Vane. Vane. Vane?” The word felt foreign in his mouth.  
Meanwhile, while he was distracted, Percival managed to slink his way around behind him. As soon as he saw a chance, the red-clad knight did not hesitate to put his entire weight and all his strength into a blow to the back of Lancelot’s head.  
Lancelot’s eyes widened in pain for the split second before he crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut as the demon abandoned him.  
“Hatred enough for the whole world and weakness enough to make a newborn lamb laugh. If only all mortal shells were so frail, _certa victoria,_ ” it mused as it curled up from his unconscious form in a plume of flame. “Though, certainly, _ego non resisti potest_ , no matter how you struggle.”


	7. A Feast

“Lancey, you’re awake!” Vane’s voice greeted him the moment he awoke like the morning sun. “Hey, hey, don’t try to get up yet.”  
He was gently pushed back down onto the bed.  
“Give me a sec, I’m gonna go get Siegfried.”  
Vane’s footsteps retreated.  
He could not tell how much time passed before they returned. Two sets of feet clicking along the floor. He turned his head to the side to see two blurry shapes approach, one dark as a cold night and the other a warm mix of colors like a clear summer’s day.  
“How are you feeling, Lancelot?”  
“What happened…?”  
“Percival tells me that your recovery was rushed. It seems to have been a bit too rushed.” Siegfried smiled a tired smile. “That, and you always have ignored your own limitations.”  
Lancelot pushed himself up onto his elbows. “I thought that was considered a virtue?”  
“In moderation, Lancelot. Virtue pushed too far becomes a fatal flaw.”  
“I told you to take it easy,” Vane interjected, hands on his hips.  
Lancelot couldn’t help but laugh at his stern expression. It was so very un-Vane-like.  
Vane tried to hold his frown, but before long, he too dissolved into laughter. He grabbed onto Lancelot’s hand and pulled him to his feet, grinning. “C’mon, Lancey, let’s go celebrate!”  
“Celebrate?”  
Siegfried nodded. “King Carl has planned a feast in our honor. Although, I must admit that I do not much relish the idea of appearing in front of so many.”  
“It’ll be fine, Siegfried! We just show up ‘n get to eat! No talking required!” Vane chirped.

King Carl seemed unaware of the tense and awkward mood of the room as he raised his glass enthusiastically. “A toast to our fine knights!” he called out, and everyone snapped out of their uncomfortable silence and raised their glasses as well.  
Except for Lancelot. He leapt to his feet with a terror that had become all too familiar. All eyes turned to him.  
“P-Please excuse my rudeness, Your Majesty. I… I don’t feel so well…”  
The king looked at him worriedly. “It’s quite alright, Lancelot. Don’t let us keep you.”  
“Thank you.” He dipped a bow that made the whole table rattle and walked as fast as he could out the door.  
Vane stood as well. “I think I should go after him?” he said.  
The king nodded. “Yes, someone should.”  
Percival and Siegfried murmured their agreement as well as half-hearted excuses as to why they couldn't do it instead.

He found Lancelot curled up in a little ball of doubt and fear. His cat perched on his knees and made small chirping noises of feline concern.  
“Mrrp?”  
Lancelot stroked it and buried his face in its fur.  
“Whatcha hiding out here for?”  
He raised his head slowly. The cat leapt off him and bumped against his side. “Hi there, Vane,” he mumbled.  
“Y’know you’re missing out on a pretty nice feast.”  
Lancelot mustered a weak smile. “You didn’t need to leave for me. I know you like to eat.”  
Vane knelt down in front of him and tried to look him in his downturned eyes. “I do, but you need to eat too. A lot more than I do.”  
Lancelot’s shoulders rose and dropped in a shrug. “I just… don’t trust it after what happened last time.”  
“Would you eat if you knew I was the one who made it?”  
He looked up, dark blue eyes filled with strange desperation. “I can trust you?” he said. It came out more like a question.  
“Of course you can!” Vane said. He grabbed onto Lancelot’s hand and hauled him to his feet. “C’mon, I’ll fix something up for you and then I’ll be out of your way.”  
Lancelot practically jumped up. In a bit of a panic, he gripped onto Vane’s arm and blurted, “N-N-No, I don’t want to be alone! Please stay?”  
Vane smiled brightly. “Of course I will, Lancey. I’m not going anywhere.”


	8. Take a Break

As far as everyone else was concerned, Lancelot had returned to his old self. He performed his duties. He joked with the new recruits. So what if a bit less energetic than before? So what if he spent more time alone, or if he never ate with everyone else in the mess hall, or if he flinched when someone moved too quickly around him?   
Vane, however, saw all of that. Lancelot may have been able to put on a show for the other knights, but Vane could see that he was tired and underweight and paranoid, that something was wrong; something had never stopped being wrong since the moment they rescued him from Isabella’s grasp.  
He knocked on the door, hoping Lancelot was still awake at this late hour. From the other side, he heard the sounds of someone tripping, falling, then righting themself on the hardwood floor. The door swung open.  
“Vane? What are you doing here?” He glanced past him at the pitch-black sky. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”  
“Shouldn’t you?”  
Lancelot shrugged and motioned Vane inside. “I should, but… Well, you know.”   
Vane looked into his friend’s exhausted eyes. “No, I don’t know,” he said gravely. “What’s been going on with you?”  
Lancelot just shrugged again. He stepped carefully around the mess of his room, mumbling apologies as Vane tried to find space to stand amongst the unwashed laundry and crumpled papers and plates of food left half-eaten.   
“I do not know what you are seeing in me, Vane, but I promise you that I’m okay.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. It never did these days. They remained dark and expressionless and guarded, giving not a single hint to what was going on inside his head.  
“Don’t lie to me. Please.” There was a desperation in his voice that bordered on beseeching. “Why won’t you talk to me? Why do you seem so content to just- to just… rot away?”  
Lancelot laughed; it was a hollow sound. “You shouldn’t be so morbid, Vane. It doesn’t suit you.”  
“Lancelot, stop it!!”  
He froze, eyes wide with shock. Never, ever in his entire life had Vane called him by his full name.   
“Stop dodging the question and just tell me what’s wrong!” Vane yelled. Despite his attempts to hold them back, a few tears escaped and rolled down his cheeks.  
Lancelot stared at him, he stared at Lancelot. Silence hung in the air between them as each tried to think of what to say.  
And then Lancelot smiled. It crept its way across his face like a broken thing, slow and sad and hesitant. It hurt to look at. Had he broken down crying instead, it could not express the same depth of misery as that smile.   
“I wish I could tell you,” he said softly, “but I don't know. I don't know where it begins, I don't know where it ends. Everything is wrong, Vane, everything.”  
Vane, not knowing what else to do, threw his arms around him and hugged him tightly. “Then I’ll fix everything,” he whispered into Lancelot’s ear.  
This time, Lancelot cried. His shoulders shook as the hiccuping sobs forced their way out of his body. He buried his face in Vane’s shirt, his tears soaking through the fabric.

Lancelot woke up to a mid-afternoon sun. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and wondered who let him sleep in so late. His cat, who had been sleeping next to him, meowed its complaint at the disturbance. It stretched. Lancelot stretched too, mirroring the feline motion.  
“Morning, sleepyhead.”  
Lancelot jolted and his head whipped around to face Vane. “H-How long have you been there?”  
“The whole time. I woke up a few hours ago, but you looked so tired last night that I let you sleep.”  
“But, but— Don’t we have things to do? I mean, we just got all those new recruits in, and we still need to work on rebuilding, and—”  
Vane pushed his finger against Lancelot’s lips. “Shhh. Don’t worry, I worked things out with Siegfried and Percy. We get a vacation!”  
“... Huh?”  
“Well, we all agreed that you need a break, and… and they insisted that I take off time too to keep you company.” He hoped Lancelot didn’t notice his blush as he said that last part. “I was thinking we could have a picnic.”  
“A picnic?”  
“Mm-hm!” Vane’s eyes lit up in a way that reminded Lancelot of an over-exuberant puppy. He certainly jumped around as much as one. “We can go for a walk up the mountain! I’ll be making the food. Whaddya wanna bring? But we can’t bring all sweets, no matter how much you want that.”  
“Just a few,” Lancelot answered. His mouth twitched into the tiniest of smiles, but to Vane’s increasing joy, this one was genuine. “And maybe a little something for this weirdo,” he added as his cat tried to clamber onto his shoulders.  
“Well, I guess I should thank that fluffball for staying with you when I’m away.”  
The cat meowed loudly into his ear.  
Lancelot reached up to scratch its chin. “I think it agrees.”


	9. Cats and Dogs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for being Dragon Age trash

“C’mon, Vane, let me at least carry one thing!” Lancelot whined.  
Vane shifted the baskets out of the reach of Lancelot’s grasping hands. “Nuh-uh. Big, strong Vane is going to carry it for you!”  
“Am I not strong enough?”  
Lancelot regretted those words as Vane looked away. He held one arm out in front of himself. His eyes followed the contour of his bones and traced the path of his veins to where the pale skin stretched nearly translucent around his protruding joints.  
“... Perhaps not right now,” he said as he lowered his arm.  
“You are still recovering,” Vane offered optimistically. “Soon enough, you’ll be challenging me to push-up contests again!”  
Lancelot nodded. Vane waited in expectant silence for him to say something else, but he couldn’t think of anything. Why? Talking to Vane should have been as easy as breathing—he had been doing it almost as long. But, with a lack of words very much like a lack of air, like drowning, he could not think of a single reply.  
Vane filled the gap for him before it stretched too long, “How do you think Pounce-a-lot is getting along with Percy?” he asked.  
“I think he’ll do better with a cat than a dog. They’re a lot alike.”  
“Haughty and selfish?”  
“On the outside. Just soft and kind on the inside. Percival could learn a thing or two from a cat about showing it though. Curling up in laps— Figuratively of course!” he added quickly.  
Vane laughed, bright and loud. “I dunno, he might curl up in Siegfried’s!”  
There was a pause as they both realized what he had suggested.  
“I meant—” Vane began just as Lancelot said, “I wouldn’t mind.”  
They looked at each other, then away. Lancelot blushed, hoped Vane didn’t see, and mumbled, “It...sounds kinda nice…?”  
“Percy in your lap or being in Siegfried’s?” Vane blurted.  
“N-Neither! I-I just… Cats…?” he finished weakly.  
Vane was eager to move on past this topic. “You’re kinda like a cat too. But in a different way from Percy.”  
And you have a lap, Lancelot thought immediately, but he bit the words back before they could slip out and embarrass him even more. “You’re like a dog sometimes.”  
Vane performed an incredibly convincing bark before dissolving into laughter. “That’s what Percy tells me!”   
The end of his sentence was punctuated by a thunderclap. The noise signaled the opening of the skies, and the clouds released their watery burden,  
“We need to find shelter!” Vane yelped over the downpour. “Lancey! … Why are you laughing so hard?”  
“It’s raining...cats...and dogs!” Lancelot gasped out through his laughter.   
Vane was afraid that maybe he had finally, irrevocably snapped. “Uh…”  
“Cats and dogs!” he repeated. “We really gonna let a bit of rain stop us?”  
“But— You could catch a cold!” He shifted the picnic baskets to one hand and scooped Lancelot up with his other arm. “And I’m not letting that happen.”


	10. Picnic Confessions

They took shelter under the branches of a tree in bloom. It shielded them from the downpour even as the rain knocked petals free. The delicate pink things spiraled down, sticking to their wet hair and clothing.  
One gently drifted down to land on Vane’s nose. He looked at it cross-eyed, and Lancelot laughed. Vane laughed, too. With delicate care that made both of them blush (although they also both ignored it), Lancelot plucked the petal from its perch and let it be carried away by the wind.  
“Shall we start the picnic?”  
“I never thought you would be the one to say it first.”  
“You get excited for food, I get excited for your food. So.”  
Vane stared at Lancelot as he unbuckled his belt. “Uh, Lancey, what’re you doing?”  
Lancelot unwound the bolt of cloth tied to his waist and spread it out on the grass in a single fluid motion, before resecuring his belt. “We can’t eat off of the ground,” he pointed out.  
Vane gestured helplessly at the makeshift picnic blanket. “But, won’t that ruin it? I can’t believe I forgot to bring one…”  
Lancelot flashed a smile as sweet and gentle as the petals fluttering from above. “Don’t worry about it. ‘S just decorative, anyway.”  
“But…”  
Lancelot rolled his eyes. “I said not to worry. So don’t look so glum. Does it matter if it rains, or if you forgot a blanket? It doesn’t make it any less perfect.” Without missing a beat, he slipped smoothly into a cross-legged position and was already laying out the assortment of food.  
Vane watched him. He had known Lancelot for so long, and yet the knight had the tendency to leave him absolutely stunned. He made everything look so effortless. There was something in the way he moved, a certain grace, a tilt of the head that made the sunlight peeking through the clouds light up every drop of rain nestled on his hair like a halo, the flutter of his fingers here and then there the…  
“Vane, this is the first time I’ve seen you not take the opportunity to pounce,” Lancelot said, shaking him out of his reverie.  
He was still lost enough to let his next words slip out, “You’re gorgeous.”  
Lancelot gave him a strange look, then laughed. “C’mon, Vane, sit down. You look like you’re about to keel over! Are you running a fever or something?” he teased, seeming to ignore the awkward compliment.  
“N-No!” Vane answered, even though he felt himself blushing harder. It was not a pleasant feeling—in fact, he felt ashamed. He had brought Lancelot here to cheer the knight up, and yet this seemed to be working the other way around.  
Lancelot tilted his head, his dark eyes narrowing. “Vane?”  
“Nothing!” He plopped himself down beside Lancelot, and immediately began stuffing his face before he had the chance to say anything else stupid.  
The other knight smiled at him, and something sparked in those long-dead coals of his eyes.  
“Did I ever mention that your cooking is absolutely amazing?” he said, then paused, then added, “Just like you.  
Vane choked. “W-What!?” he managed between fits of coughing.  
Lancelot tried to help him breathe again. “I said you’re amazing, and please don’t let this be how you die,” he said jokingly, but there was real worry there.  
“That would be… the stupidest way… to die,” he gasped. He swallowed, hard. Not quite believing his ears, he asked, “Could you repeat that first part?”  
“You’re amazing and I think I’m in love with you and it’s absolutely terrifying,” he blurted all at once, his voice suddenly growing thick like he was about to cry.  
“... What?”  
Lancelot punched him in the arm before burying his face in his hands. “I’m sorry…”  
“For what?” Vane asked with increasing urgency. He could see Lancelot beginning to tremble. His hands hovered over the smaller knight’s body, uncertain if hugging him would help or make it worse.  
Lancelot was doing his best not to break down sobbing. Firstly, because those words were the most frightening thing he ever said, and rejection was a terrifying thought, and reciprocation was even worse. His ears were ringing and all he could hear was

_sweet, lovely Lancelot. You will squeal like the filthy pig you are._  
_And his mind was filled with the sensation, gagging, choking on her tongue as it pushed its way past his teeth, gasping for air that wasn’t there and_

No. Not in front of Vane. Not right here. Not right now.  
But he could not swallow the panic rising inside of him or dam the flow of his tears.  
For the second day in a row, he found himself sobbing into Vane’s arms.

Impossibly, the voice in his ear was not Isabella’s as it whispered, “I love you, too.”


	11. Frost

The rustle of grass half-woke Vane from his slumber. Through sleep-blurred eyes he saw a smudge of movement in shades of darkness.  
“Lancey?” he mumbled. “Where’re you going?”  
“Don’t worry. I won’t be long.”  
“What…?”  
“Go back to sleep, Vane.”  
He felt something brush against his forehead. Based on last night’s exchange, he wanted to believe it was a kiss, but it could have just been the brush of fingertips, or nothing more than the whisper of cloth as he turned.   
Some time later, Vane fully awakened. He rubbed at his eyes and stretched his cramped limbs; sleeping on the ground was not the most comfortable thing. It was still early, and the sky shone pink and orange and pale blue where its colors showed through the clouds. His breath fogged the air and drifted up like a ghost to dance among the branches.  
It was incredibly cold. He shivered so hard his teeth clacked together. He tucked his hands under his arms to keep his fingers from going numb, and looked hurriedly around.  
“Lancey!?” he called out. His voice fled away across the frosted grass.   
He was about two seconds away from full-on panic, when he heard, “Please d-don’t yell.”   
Vane had to bite back his first instinct, which was to yell and hug Lancelot as tight as he could as soon as he caught sight of him.  
Lancelot’s mouth twitched in a half-hearted attempt at a smile. Somehow, Vane knew that he was shaking from more than just the cold.  
“Did something happen?”  
“N-No. I ch-ch-checked,” he said through chattering teeth. His eyes darted around, then settled back on Vane. “Several t-times.”  
“Checked for what?”  
He breathed out a laugh. “Nothing, apparently. M-Must be h-hearing things.”  
“What kind of things?”  
Lancelot tumbled into his arms. “It’s c-c-cold.”  
“You’re freezing!” Vane said. Very carefully, taking care not to surprise him, Vane brought him in closer. With the same slow cautiousness, he began to massage the warmth back into his body.  
Lancelot did not seem to mind. In fact, he nuzzled against Vane’s chest, his arms stretching to wrap around him.   
It was times like these when Vane remembered how large the difference in their size was. Lancelot’s head fit neatly under his chin. Two of Vane’s fingers together were nearly the width of Lancelot’s arm. He could enfold the night like a blanket. Which was good, because right now, a blanket was exactly what Lancelot needed.

The sun had risen fully over the horizon by the time they felt like actually walking anywhere. By then, it was warm enough that they did not have to huddle-shuffle down the path like ungainly penguins.  
It was an hour before Vane finally admitted they were lost.  
Lancelot’s hand found his. “I don’t mind getting lost with you,” he said.  
Vane smiled at him. “Company does make it better.”  
“What do you call it? ‘Taking the scenic route’? Might as well see some sights.” He swept his other hand out to indicate the rolling hills of Feendrache.  
“But we might get more lost.”  
“So?” He squeezed Vane’s hand. “We’re together, aren’t we? It can’t be that bad.”  
Vane blushed. Somehow, those simple words echoed the ‘I love you’ of the night before.


	12. Intermission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aight, so the next chapter isn't going to be coming out for a while. As a bit of an apology for that, here's a possessed!Lancelot I worked on this year.


	13. Separation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is probably kind of an underwhelming chapter considering how long it took me to write it...

Vane argued it for as long as he could, but he had to return to the front lines eventually.   
“It’s okay,” Lancelot reassured him with a smile. His cat perched on his shoulder like a tiny, fluffy gargoyle. “It’ll only be a few weeks.”  
“Yeah, but…”  
“Vane. I… I do want you to stay, but your life can’t revolve around me. You have to do your part for the knights, especially since…” he trailed off, but they both knew how it ended. Since I still can’t do mine.  
Vane knew he was right. “I’ll do my best, captain,” he said with a salute.  
Lancelot snorted. “No need to be so formal. You’re leading this army more than I am.” And before Vane could argue, he gently grabbed onto his shoulders and turned him around. “C’mon, get going. The sooner you leave the sooner you can come back.”  
“... See you soon, Lancey.”  
“Of course.”  
The cat meowed.

He hadn’t woken up without Vane in so long. It felt strange to open his eyes and not see that sun-bright grin or hear his voice. He bit back his rising panic; he could do this by himself, couldn’t he?   
Small steps.  
First, he needed to get dressed. He swallowed, hard. As sweat-stained as they were, his stomach churned at the thought of taking off his clothes, the thought of his body, nothing between him and…  
“She doesn’t exist,” he hissed. “Stop being so stupid.”   
Muttering to himself to drown out the protestations of his thoughts, he quickly changed into his armor.   
One thing down. Gods-know-how-many to go.  
His cat bumped against his leg and meowed reassuringly. He lifted it up, and it squirmed out of his grip to wrap itself around his shoulders and purr in his ear. Lancelot spent a few minutes stroking its sleek fur to help calm his nerves.   
“Okay. Ready to head out?” he said to himself as much as to it. He was answered with another meow.  
Cold metal. Don’t think. Turn the doorknob. Step outside. Lancelot released a shaky breath. This was harder than he thought. Everything was hard without Vane. He ached for the lack of him, everything from the blue sky above his head to the mewl of his cat to the well-worn path beneath his feet made him think of Vane. And whatever wasn’t tied with Vane is his mind was tied with her.   
Lancelot really wanted to go back inside and cry.  
“What would Vane think of that?” he said to himself. He could even see Vane’s expression, resigned disappointment, Lancelot’s letdown no surprise. Pitiful little Lancelot. Reject toy soldier.   
“Just today. Just do it today,” Lancelot whispered.  
He headed toward the dining hall.

Lancelot pushed himself through the tiny steps that made up his day, that turned into weeks, that stretched into months, and Vane had still not returned.


	14. Nine Lives

Something was very wrong with his human. For the past few days, it had paced around the room, sleepless. It dug through its mess of discarded trash and flipped wildly through the strange-looking books it found underneath. That wasn’t the concerning part; his human occasionally did things like that. What was concerning was how his human had stopped moving. It coiled up on its bed like a wounded kitten. He jumped onto its chest, rising and falling with shallow breaths. He mewed and chirped and batted genty at its face, but it did not respond. He wished that it could understand him.   
I have nine lives, but you only have one. Don’t waste it like this.  
He let out a pitiful meow, and when even that failed to make his human stir, he decided to take things into his own paws. He dropped to the floor with a soft thunk and nudged the door to the outside open with his head. 

Lancelot’s stupid cat would not shut up. It meowed at his ankles with single-minded determination, staring directly at his face.  
“What do you want?” he asked in his exasperation.  
It ran ahead of him a few steps before pausing and meowing again. He decided to follow, if only to get the thing to leave him alone.   
It led him to—where else?—Lancelot’s room. Percival stepped inside, and the cat leapt into a pile of dirty laundry to take a nap. He rolled his eyes, wondering what the point of all this was, when he realized that the lump on the bed was Lancelot.  
“Get up,” he grumbled, grabbing him by the shoulders to pull him up.  
He got only a quiet groan in reply. Lancelot collapsed back onto the bed as soon as he let go.  
Percival swore under his breath. He praised the gods on his next when he heard a familiar clank of armor.   
“Siegfried, perfect timing. Get in here.”  
“Why?”  
“It’s Lancelot.”  
His expression turned serious. He bent his head to get through the door (sometimes he was a little jealous of Lancelot’s height) and approached the bed. He pressed his hand to Lancelot’s forehead.  
Burning hot. “We need to get him to the infirmary.”  
Lancelot’s eyelids fluttered. “N-No,” he mewled. He curled in on himself.  
Siegfried would have none of it. He grabbed onto Lancelot’s arm to attempt to pull him up, but… Something was wrong. The skin was studded with smooth little bumps, and when he looked down…  
Lancelot’s skin was speckled with scales. They ran from his palm to his shoulder, and probably further, small round snake scales of deep blues and blacks. “What did you do?” He ran his thumb along the scales and pushed his nail up against them, half hoping they would pop off. They didn’t. As he turned Lancelot over, he saw more of them. They wound their way along his legs, crept up his neck, sprinkled his skin like freckles. Something else caught Siegfried’s eye, and he unbuttoned the top of Lancelot’s shirt.  
“Oh, Lancelot…” he whispered. Percival couldn’t find any words at all.  
A jagged wound like a faultline ran up his chest, leading up to where, nestled below his collarbones, summoning symbol had been carved. The same as the one Isabella had used. The edges of his injuries flickered with blue flame. Isabella’s books lay open on the floor.  
“Why?”  
His eyes opened a sliver. Thin crescents of otherworldly light, they cast their glow on his eyelashes and cheeks. His lips parted around wickedly sharp fangs, but there was no cruelty in his expression. None of the hatred and anger he had shown during his possession, not even the darkness that haunted him after his rescue. His hands clenched and unclenched like a newborn’s.  
“Vane…” he said softly.   
“Vane isn’t here right now.”  
“I know…” He twisted out of Siegfried’s grip and onto his feet with the grace of a cat and fluidity of a snake. They backed away from him. “That’s why…”  
“What?”  
A forked tongue flicked out between his teeth. “Needed power,” he said, his voice a gentle hiss. “For Vane.” He buttoned up his shirt and closed his glowing eyes. “Won’t be long. Don’t need long.”  
He lunged forward. They jumped back. Lancelot slipped out the door like a shadow, and vanished in an instant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo, sorry that my writing has slowed down recently. a lot of things have been happening, plus I'm doing the TWEWY Bang which sucks up a lot of my writing time. updates might take longer than usual for a while.
> 
> anyway, this angst fest will finally begin its transition to fluff soon


End file.
